


My End and My Beginning

by azure7539



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), 쓸쓸하고 찬란하神 - 도깨비 | Goblin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Crossover, Goblin - Freeform, Grim Reapers, Guardian - Freeform, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 01:20:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9855722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure7539/pseuds/azure7539
Summary: “The prayers of your people have saved you.However, the blade of your sword has soaked up too much fresh blood.Even though they might have been your enemies,They were all creations of the Divinity.From now on, you shall lead an immortal life,Bearing witness to the death of every person you hold dear.And you will never be able to forget any one of them.This is both my reward and punishment for you.The person who holds your heartShall be the one to remove the sword from your chest,Then, and only then, can you return to dust and find your eternal rest.”-In which James Bond used to be a Scottish general, but after being betrayed and slain by his own king, he became a goblin/guardian with the sword of his once-master remained pierced straight through his heart.In order to remove the sword, he must find his love.But there’s a catch.





	

**Author's Note:**

> To give credit when credit is due: the premise of this story is **inspired by a TV series called _Goblin: The Lonely and Shining God_** (check it out if you have the time; it's really great.)
> 
> Everyone, this is a strange story thought up half-asleep and developed from there. Aside from a few canon characters' details, a large chunk of this holds no resemblance to the Craig!Bond's verse... or any Bond verse at all. So take it with a pinch of salt if you're in it for a strange ride, otherwise, you have been warmed.
> 
> Enjoy~

**Scotland, 1075.**

* * *

 

It was difficult to see.

Amidst the screams and shouts, amidst columns of black smoke and the stench of burning human flesh, in all those agonizing wails and guttural last breaths, amidst the drumming of his own heart, Bond wiped the blood from his eye, oozing as it was from the cut on his eyebrow, and hauled himself back to his feet by the leverage of his sword.

They had been fighting for three days and three nights, defending the borders from southern invaders.

His men were dwindling down to nothing, but they had to win.

This was their last, deciding fight.

_(Back then, he didn’t know how true this statement was.)_

With one hoarse cry, Bond charged forward, red snow crunching under his feet as he swung his sword, the metal gleaming crimson under the grey rays of light.

They had to win.

-

The ride back was only quiet for so long. Morale was high, and once they had finished outwardly grieving for their lost comrades and thanking the Gods for endeavoring their near impossible victory, his troop was heading home. 

Some of them anyway, and Bond turned his thoughts away from the soldiers who had laid down their lives on the battlefield. To him, to their friends and families, they had been people, individuals. But to others and to the rest of history, they would forever remain nameless men who had sacrificed themselves in a war, their deaths too distant and intangible to mean much of anything.

“Are you all right?” Alastair asked, catching up with the fluid pace of Bond’s horse.

“I am,” Bond nodded. He supposed he should be thankful at least: his most loyal friend was still alive on this earth with him, despite all the odds.

“We did it, James.” Alastair grinned, his voice nearly drowned out by the loud talking from the soldiers behind them. “By Gods, we really did turn that entire thing around.”

Bond snorted a small laugh himself. “You doubted that chance, then?”

Alastair looked like he wanted to kick Bond in the shin. And he would have, if it hadn’t been for the troop’s presence. Keeping a General’s dignity and all that. Plus, all of them were too exhausted anyway, barely healing wounds littering all over as it was. “As if you had not.”

“I have my abilities to trust in,” Bond said.

“No,” Alastair deadpanned. “You have your ego to hang onto.”

And they laughed.

-

The cheering was deafening. It was in the middle of winter, and yet people from the castle town had all but pour out of their houses to welcome the troop back from the literal hell on earth they had marched toward weeks ago.

“General Bond!” someone cried. “Our divine general!”

Subsequently, others people followed this as well, hailing and praising him to the heavens, and Bond barely managed a small smile to them while Alastair chuckled just a few paces behind him.

_(In retrospect, his reputation turned out to be his downfall.)_

-

The moat surrounding the castle had frozen over, but with how high a spirit the town was in, it really didn’t feel at all that cold. Or so they thought, but Bond knew better as he observed the pinched expressions on the faces of those soldiers who were guarding the ominously closed gate.

“Open the gate!” prompted Alastair, still grinning as he was, his horse stomping somewhat impatiently as he reigned the creature to a temporary stop. “General Bond has returned victorious once again!”

“James Bond!” Finlay, one of the soldiers Bond had trained himself, who had now become Head of the Royal Guards, shouted.

“You dare address your general by his name?!” Alastair hissed, smile gone from his lips.

“Alastair,” Bond said, a hint of warning in his otherwise calm tone.

“James Bond,” Finlay growled again, loudly enough still for everyone to hear. Given how the gales had stopped whipping a while back, perhaps even the commoners standing close enough on the other side of the drawbridge would catch it, too. “Traitor of our kingdom and beloved king, get down your horse and tell your soldiers to lay down their weapons and armors, as you shall do yourself!”

“How dare you!” Alastair’s shout burst through the spills of bewildered whispers that had immediately followed such a bold order and accusation among his troop and the people alike, indignation and betrayal swelling like a rising tide. “Traitor?! We put everything we had on the line in the name of the King, gone through hell and back, and this is what you call us now?”

There were sounds coming from overhead, and when Bond looked up to see archers pointing arrows at them from the barbican, he raised a hand to stop his second-in-command’s tirade.

“Lay down your weapons and take off your armors,” Bond calmly said to his men, wanting to spare their lives from whatever was going to happen next.

They stared back at him, but iron-clad trust forged from years of facing death together won over, and eventually relented as they did as was instructed.

Bond, however, did not let go of his sword.

“Let me see the King,” he demanded, cold anger brewing under the surface. “Anyone who stands in my way, dies.”

Something glimmered in Finlay’s eyes, cryptic, and before Bond could decipher it, arrows had fired down from the sky, unprovoked, raining down onto his defenseless men.

Quickly, they fell down like trampled grass, something bleeding out on the spot, others falling into the ditch below, colliding against frozen ice with sickening cracks.

Men, who had survived the raging infernal of wars, who now died under the wrath of the very King in whose name they had fought for.

“No…” Alastair breathed, staggering after having taken one hit himself.

It wasn’t until then that someone shouted, “Open the gate!” from the inside.

“Alastair.” Bond gripped his second-in-command’s shoulders, straightening him, his blue eyes somewhat wide themselves. “Stay here and look after them,” he said. “I shall go speak to the King and return to you all.”

Alastair hesitated before nodding, and with one last nod, Bond turned and left.

The royal guards were stationed everywhere, many of them had once been under Bond’s command before. Sword heavy and out of its sheath in his hand, Bond persevered ahead, never stopping, never allowing his gaze to stray.

There, in the surrounded inner court yard, the courtiers gathered, and above them all stood the King, all flowing cape of red and the bejeweled gold crown glinting proudly around his head.

In the middle of it all was the Queen, eyes red-rimmed, her face solemn from the emotions she was trying to keep at bay. She was by herself, apart from all others.

“General Bond,” she greeted softly. “You are here to see the King.” It wasn’t a question.

“Your Highness…”

“Go,” she stated. “Go up and face him. I am fine, and I understand everything. Truly.” Her hands curled into fists, head held high. “No matter what happens, do not turn back, do not stop.” The barest of smile bloomed on her lips as she sucked in a small, steadying breath. “If my life ends here today, then it shall be my destiny.”

_(Even until the end, the glory of her dignity never diminished.)_

And so he went.

“Stop.”

The King spoke for the first time, his words echoing in the confinement of the stone walls.

“Traitor, if you take one more step, I will have everyone under your reign executed.”

_(Here was the rumor that had been floating about: above the people was their King, and above the King was the Divinity._

_And that Divinity, as gossip went, was James Bond._

_James Bond, who always came back from places he was not supposed to return from._

_He had garnered too much of the people’s trust.)_

They yanked his tied up family out to face him, every single one of them down to the servants, with the swords of those guards poised behind their backs, unyielding. But none of them made a sound, his family; none struggled.

_(They understood their imminent demise much as they understood the grim truth behind it:_

_No two suns could exist on the same sky. Either one destroyed the other, or suffered the consequences.)_

“Die as a traitor,” the King continued, the manic gleam in his eyes sharper than any blade Bond had faced, “then no more lives shall end because of you.”

_(Lies.)_

When Bond gritted his teeth and forced himself to carry on forth—because, no, it couldn’t end like this; it shouldn’t end like this—the whoosh of a flying arrow hissed through the crisp winter air just as the King bellowed, “TREASON!”

The Queen fell down to the ground with a dull _thud_ , blood spattering from the wound where that arrow had punctured her heart.

And every step he took after that, they slaughtered every victim of his family, and the burning pain was near searing in Bond’s veins.

“Wait.” One finger pointing at Bond, the King said, “What are you doing? Make him bow to me!”

A guard came up from behind and slashed right through Bond’s calves, pulling a strangled gasp from his lips as he fell down, almost sprawling onto the snow if he hadn’t stabbed his sword to the ground and kept himself up right.

“James!”

Alastair, who could no longer stand waiting outside, had come running in.

But he froze the moment he saw the Queen’s body in the middle of the courtyard.

“M-Madeline…” he wheezed, quickly trying to gather her up in his arms. “No, no… No…” His head snapped up, hatred scorching through his eyes. “How could you do this? Are you not afraid of Gods’ punishment?!”

The King tossed his head back and laughed. “Gods’ punishment? _I_ am your King in Gods’ will. No one is on your side.” And just like that, the grin on his face withered. “Kill them,” he ordered, almost dispassionately.

When Finlay came swinging his sword to take that honor, Bond used the last bit of strength he possessed, buffered by sheer willpower, deflected the blow and sent the weapon flying to the other side of the courtyard.

“It is not your task to perform,” Bond growled, menacing as he had always been, despite the moment of steep despair.

When Alastair dropped to his knees beside him, just at the edge of hyperventilation, Bond handed over his sword to him.

“I want you,” Bond began, “to take care of my death, Alastair.”

It was already apparent that no amount of talking or reasoning would sway the King now.

Tears streaming down his eyes, Alastair nodded, resignation battling with pain. He took the sword, its weight unfamiliar in his grips, and positioned it just so the tip rested right over where Bond’s heart was, going for a swift death.

Bond squeezed his hand, a look of both _thank you_ and _I am sorry_ crossed his features, before he let go.

“Forgive me… I will follow you shortly, James,” Alastair whispered, and the sword plunged in.

Blood surged from between Bond’s lips, and dripped to the snow below, painting a morbid flower of gore.

He barely noticed it when Alastair was cut down, once again from behind, just as he barely noticed it when he himself fell.

“Take the traitor’s body to the moors,” heralded the King’s order. “He deserves no burial. Let the beasts feast on his flesh, and once their hunger is quenched, perhaps his sins will then be cleansed as well.”

-

Bond’s body was left to rot in the dried up field, the cries of his servants, who had been spared from death as the King had grown bored of the entire spectacle after the general’s demise, along with that of the people rang throughout the lands.

“May your soul rest in peace, General!”

“Oh God, our General!”

“God bless your soul…”

-

_Do not pray to anyone… because, in the end, no one will listen._

-

_That day, under the piercing grey light of the midday sun, General James Bond took his last breath, slain by the very King he had sworn to protect with his life._

 

* * *

 

And, in a state of nothingness, Gods told to him:

_“The prayers of your people have saved you._

_However, the blade of your sword has soaked up too much fresh blood._

_Even though they might have been your enemies,_

_They were all creations of the Divinity._

_From now on, you shall lead an immortal life,_

_Bearing witness to the death of every person you hold dear._

_And you will never be able to forget any one of them._

_This is both my reward and punishment for you._

_The person who holds your heart_

_Shall be the one to remove the sword from your chest,_

_Then, and only then, can you return to dust and find your eternal rest.”_

 

* * *

 

**Sussex, England, 1985.**

* * *

 

“That is such a strange story,” the woman said finally. “Are you sure you didn’t just conjure half of that up from some oriental fairy tale?”

The old lady stared at her and swatted at her hand. “Of course I did not make it up,” she said, but her worn voice did not sound at all that angry or offended.

Her customer pouted, rubbing at the back of her hand. “That’s no different than you telling me he’s real and out there somewhere.”

“You can’t find him though,” the elderly woman behind the fruit and vegetable stall continued, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. “He’s nowhere and everywhere at the same time.”

“Right…” the woman murmured. “So… when this General Bond rose up from the death, did he go to find that tyranny of a king and exact vengeance?”

It took a moment, but a reply eventually came, “The Kingdom he once protected was no longer there. Everything was already in ruin.”

The young woman blinked. “Oh…” She frowned a little, seemingly disappointed, her eyes flitting around before focusing back on the owner. “But that’s rather mean, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“Gods… For giving him that punishment even after all those terrible things that had happened. He didn’t even get to revenge the King.”

A sigh. “That is how it is. Gods, even in olden tales, are fickle at best. Selfish, envious… narcissistic. That is how they are described.”

“True,” it was the young woman’s turn to sigh. “It all turns out to be quite tragic in the end, don’t you think? Finding your bride only to die in the process.” She shook her head and stood up with a click of her tongue, giving the old lady the change as she gathered her bag of vegetables. “I need to go now.” She smiled. “Thank you for the bonus story.”

The old woman suddenly held on tightly to her hand just as she was about to turn away.

“When faced with imminent death,” she began, the lilt of her tone taking a strange turn, “make a sincere prayer, and perhaps a soft-hearted God passing by will answer it for you.”

* * *

 

She never thought much about it until a car, trying to pass a red light, crashed into her before speeding away and leaving to death in the snow.

 

* * *

 

“P-please,” the young woman choked, her body convulsing from hypothermia and losing too much blood too fast. “Someone…” Hot tears rolled down her cheeks as she struggled to move but couldn’t, the pain enveloping and blindsiding her every time she tried. “Anyone… please… save me.”

Her lungs constricted; she could barely breathe. “Please… I can’t die like this…”

Air spluttered in her throat, and just as she was verging on the edge of consciousness, a burst of blue flames engulfed her vision, and out of it came a man, dressed in what could only be a bespoke suit.

He hovered, and in the state that she was in, she hardly had the strength to question how he had materialized before her eyes just like that.

“Please…” she pleaded, twitching her fingers where frostbite was beginning to set in as a last-ditch effort at attempting to edge closer to him while the other hand remained cradling her stomach. “Please…”

He was saying something, and she strained her ears to listen.

“It’s my policy not to meddle with human’s life,” said the man, voice low and quiet. “But I’m in no mood to see anyone die in front of me tonight.” He paused. “And it seems… you aren’t even begging for your own life.”

“M-my baby… please… just my baby… Just my baby is fine,” she managed weakly before blacking out.

The last thing that registered in her memory was the man’s striking, icy blue eyes.

 

* * *

 

**HELEN STANFIELD**

Born on September 26, 1960, at 3:41 AM.

Deceased on December 23, 1985, at 10:49 PM.

Age: 25

Cause of death: blood loss from car accident.

 -

**NO NAME**

Unborn.

Deceased on December 23, 1985, at 11:08 PM.

Age: 9 months, 2 days

Cause of death: hypothermia and suffocation.

The Grim Reaper stared at the pool of blood on the ground—an obvious indication of the occurred accident. He checked his ticking watch again.

It was as the name cards stated (the first one anyway), and yet, the body of the pregnant woman and her unborn child was nowhere in sight.

Standing there, the lone black-clad figure remained puzzled for a few long seconds, before holding onto his black hat, lest it get blown away, as the winds picked up once more.

Catching a whiff of scent, he turned, spotting the blooming flowers nearby.

“Snow, blood…” the Grim Reaper mused, “and flowers.”

Wild cherry blossoms in the midst of winter.

* * *

 

When her baby was born, he had bright green eyes and wavy strands of dark hair; healthy with smiling pink lips.

She held him tight and close to her chest, fearing he would somehow disappear.

 

* * *

 

And the spirits in the shadows whispered, “The Goblin’s heart is here.”


End file.
